The owl meanwhile sits blinking and staring, out of sight in the green
top. Every moment two or three crows leave the ring to fly up close
and peep in, and then go screaming back again, hopping about on their
perches, cawing at every breath, nodding their heads, striking the
branches, and acting for all the world like excited stump speakers.
The din grows louder and louder; fresh voices are coming in every
minute; and the owl, wondering in some vague way if he is the cause of
it all, flies off to some other tree where he can be quiet and go to
sleep. Then, with a great rush and clatter, the crows follow, some
swift old scout keeping close to the owl and screaming all the way to
guide the whole cawing rabble. When the owl stops they gather round
again and go through the same performance more excitedly than before.
So it continues till the owl finds some hollow tree and goes in out of
sight, leaving them to caw themselves tired; or else he finds some
dense pine grove, and doubles about here and there, with that shadowy
noiseless flight of his, till he has thrown them off the track. Then
he flies into the thickest tree he can find, generally outside the
grove where the crows are looking, and sitting close up against the
trunk blinks his great yellow eyes and listens to the racket that goes
sweeping through the grove, peering curiously into every thick pine,
searching everywhere for the lost excitement.
Pages:
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111